


Cast Away Your Pride

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bestiality, Hand Jobs, Horses, M/M, May Contain Traces of Horses, Other, Sex Between Horses, Sex with a Horse, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a word with a flexible definition. It can change its meaning in the blink of an eye. It can turn to hate just as quickly. Trust is the same. But loyalty is important in a world where you cannot trust anybody. So, is it not normal to fall in love and trust with the only real friend you ever had?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cast Away Your Pride

He is still a child – too small for his age, in too pompous clothing, made out of too expensive fabric with way too many buttons; clothing that isn’t made for playing, for running around and having fun, clothing that isn’t made for _living_ ; clothing that is only useful to spend the sunny days sitting in his room and learning (etiquette, manners, politics, ‘Be like your brothers, Hans! Don’t be an embarrassment, Hans!’, although he doesn’t even want to be like his brothers, although he doesn’t want to be like what lies underneath their exteriors: evil, vulgar and brutal) – when his brother – his oldest brother, Henrik, his king, whom he worships and loves because he is so wonderful, smart and gentle, because he smiles whenever Hans speaks to him, because he takes him seriously, because he laughs with him (and not at him) and plays with him whenever he’s got the time for it – takes him aside and explains quietly, seriously, that it’s time for Hans to learn to take responsibility, Hans flinches and feels like an ice cold hand curls around his heart.   
  
There is fear in his eyes, in his heart and he clenches his fists in order to hide how much his fingers are shaking. Responsibility? What for? What did he do wrong? In his head, there are a dozen possibilities, a dozen mistakes he might have made without wanting it, no matter how much he tried to be a good boy, be a perfect boy, to not disappoint Henrik. He lowers his gaze and trudges after him to the stables, silently wondering what might happen to him now, wonders if – surely not, please don’t! – this will be the first time for Henrik to raise his hand against Hans.   
  
He is expecting to be thrown into the stables, being locked in the darkness, having to stay there all alone, all frightened, all terrified until somebody, accidentally, coincidentally, finds and releases him. But his brother opens the front door, carefully, slowly and orders him at his side. Hans breathes in deeply, gathers all of his courage and – blinks in confusion.  
  
There, in the first stall, there’s a foal which raises its head curiously, nosing into Hans’ direction. It teeters around on shaky legs and snuffles softly, looks at Hans with clear, intelligent eyes.  
  
“You have to give him a name,” his brother says gently. The words, however, can barely reach Hans at all. His blood is rushing in his ears, his own heartbeat drowns every other sound, and one thought, one single thought, comes to his mind:  
  
For the first time in forever, he won’t be alone anymore.  
  
–   
  
Many years later (his brothers still call him ‘boy’, but he hasn’t been a child in a while), he thinks about girls for the first time ever. He’s heard his brothers talk about them, about breasts and thighs and ‘what lies in-between’, and at first, he doesn’t know what to think about that, because between breasts and thighs there’s the stomach, and what is so exciting about that?  
  
But then, he begins to observe, which is not difficult, for his brothers have learned to overlook his presence just as much as he has learned to be unobtrusive. He watches large hands that touch soft flesh and caress it, play with it, watches inept fingers fumble and fight with the laces of a corset, hears quiet, muffled laughter and husky promises – and then, he sees for the first time just what ‘lies in-between’. In this very night, Hans sees more than he’s ever wished to see and less than necessary in order to fully understand all of it, which results in him not comprehending _why_ anybody would do these things voluntarily. Still, his thoughts spin around these actions, again and again. He lies awake at night, in his bed, under his warm blankets, and wonders why his body should react and whether he should _make_ it react. He slowly pushes a hand between his legs, closes his eyes to think of womanly curves and –   
  
– flinches, for there are steps in front of his door, people walking by, boots clicking on the polished floor. There are voices, there is laughter. Hans knows too well that his door is not locked, that anybody could open it anytime in order to look or step inside, knows that even if he’d locked it, he would never feel safe, never feel relaxed enough to dare touching himself where his brothers might hear or see it, for he also knows they’d never let it go.  
  
With a sigh, he pulls his blanket aside and leaves his room – barefoot and in his nightshirt –, sneaks through the castle halls and into the night, to the only place where he’ll ever feel secure.  
  
Sitron’s ears twitch at the sound of the door to the stables opening with a creak, and he raises his head snuffling as he recognizes Hans.  
  
It makes him smile. At least _someone_ is happy to see him. He whispers reassuring words to his horse, moves next to him to sit down in the hay with a small sigh. Sitron nudges his hand, and Hans chuckles, pets the horse’s nose and neck. He sighs again, curling up against Sitron’s flank, leans his head against his warm body, feels his chest rise and fall with every breath. _Yes_ , he thinks. This is where he belongs. Where he is safe. Where he is loved. Here, nobody will look for him.  
  
Once more, he closes his eyes and thinks of soft skin, of breasts and thighs, all the while breathing in the smell of horse and hay, feeling Sitron press up against him – the rustling of hay that resembles the rustling of cloth –, while hot breath caresses his cheek and nape. Hans shivers and shudders and touches himself, his own breathy gasps mingling with the calm breathing of the big animal next to him, and when he comes – into his own hand, quickly and messily and by far not as perseveringly as his brothers (and more like the ‘boy’ they think him to be) –, the smell of sweat and sex merges with the smell of horse and love and the feeling of belonging somewhere.  
  
–  
  
He is sixteen and it’s his first time with a girl. It’s a complete disaster.   
  
She is nothing special, is plain and ordinary, a simple maid. Nobody he needs to pay a lot of attention to. Still, he is nervous. Nervous, because it’s nothing like he’s imagined. He fumbles with her dress, which makes her giggle – a sound like nails on a chalkboard –, until she is so _generous_ to help him out. And then, she’s naked.  
  
He touches her, kisses her, spreads her legs – mechanically, automatically, like he has seen _them_ do it – without feeling anything himself. It’s wet inside of her, hot and tight, tighter than his own hand could ever be, and he wonders whether it might be her first time as well. And then he wonders whether he should even care. His fingers dig into her hips and he bares his teeth as he thrusts into her, as he watches her open her mouth, as he hears her moan and scream (sounds that make her resemble a dying animal). She puts her arms around him, around his neck, to pull him against her, and he grimaces as he feels her breasts close against his body, as her sweat mingles with his, as he notices her smell – sweat and smoke and the faintest trace of some kind of cheap perfume.  
  
Hans screws his eyes shut, wonders what made him do _this_ , and he thinks about how _different_ it had been in his mind and phantasies. He remembers them; straw and hay underneath his naked body; the smell of horse and stables; his own breathy gasps and moans; Sitron quietly snuffling in his ear and hot breath against his skin.  
  
When he comes – and this farce is finally over –, it’s to the thought of short fur under his fingertips and the sound of quiet neighing in his ears.  
  
He is so shocked, so _frightened_ by his thoughts that he never tries to sleep with a girl ever again.  
  
–  
  
Two years and a lot of hard work later, Hans has finally managed to escape his brothers’ mockery. He is an _important_ man now, he’s admiral in his Majesty’s fleet. Which means that he gets to order people around a lot, that he is able to plan and fight important battles, that he has earned the respect he deserves.  
  
It also means that he is away from home for weeks and months, that he doesn’t get to see his family – which doesn’t bother him at all –, that he misses all of the news and intrigues and most of the gossip and chit-chat about the royal family – which bothers him partially, because he needs to be informed to not be vulnerable –, and that he only seldomly gets to see his only friend. This bothers him. A lot. Mainly because he thinks about Sitron very often whenever he feels lonely and alone, in the solitude of his cabin, when there are only the gentle sounds of the sea to keep him company. In these moments, he misses Sitron desperately, misses the long afternoons under the sun, when he and Sitron ride through the woods of his kingdom – of their kingdom –, when the wind breezes through his hair and he can feel free; misses to lie down with him in the grass, when Hans pets his horse and strokes his mane, feeds him and takes care of him. He misses the sensation of soft fur under his fingers, misses those intelligent eyes that see him for how he is and not for how he’s supposed to be, those eyes that belong to the only creature that loves Hans thoroughly.  
  
So, it’s no wonder that his first path leads him to the stables, where he opens the door and –  
  
– freezes, paralyzed in fear.  
  
For Sitron is gone.  
  
  
Panic takes a hold of him, a kind of panic that’s fiercer than anything he’s ever known before. He’s never felt something like this, not in the hardest of fights, in battles of life and death, fights that might have ended his own life and those of the men he commands. He’s never been this scared. He’s never felt more like a child, never felt this small and vulnerable.   
  
Hans turns on his heels and makes haste to find somebody, anybody, with the power to explain this outrageous situation. He finds one of the stable boys – a young, blond fellow – and towers over him. “Where is my horse?” he asks, his voice shaking with anger and fear.  
  
The boy’s eyes widen and he quickly bows. “My prince … “  
  
 _"I asked you a question!"_  
  
Stammering and stuttering, the boy rushes to give an explanation in which the words ‘breeding’ and ‘royal orders’ stick out like sore thumbs.   
  
Hans feels a sudden wave of nausea at these words, at the thought of his noble steed being used for something this trivial. He looks around while gritting his teeth. And when he finally finds the friend … he comes in time to witness a stranger’s hand taking Sitron’s reins, hears his _friend_ make a small sound, watches him mount an ordinary mare.  
  
His mouth feels dry, his eyes are wide in disbelief as he observes the scene – which doesn’t even last a minute, but to Hans, it feels so, _so_ much longer. His heartbeat quickens, gallops, bile is rising in his throat. Jealousy takes a hold of him, a weird and sick kind of envy and hatred that engulfs his whole being. His mouth is a thin line, his fingers shoot forwards as soon as Sitron is _finished_ with the mare, tightening the reins in order to free him from the stable boys (not without shooting a last, disgusted glance at what lies between Sitron’s legs, not without seeing the last few droplets of his seed spilling onto the ground). “Should this happen ever again, there will be consequences to face!” he snarls and leads Sitron – that traitor! – away.  
  
–  
  
He is twenty and hides an awful secret, a shameful fantasy. His brothers talk and whisper, call him a failure, although they don’t even know half of the truth. His brother, his king, looks at him with disappointed, sad glances without ever being able to understand what’s going on in Hans’ mind, what feelings he harbors, how _disappointed_ he is in himself. He is no longer a good boy, a perfect boy, he is … _this_.  
  
Slowly, he opens the buttons of his dress shirt, one by one, exposing pale and freckled skin. His gaze falls on the young man who is standing right in front of him, who is watching him uncertainly, impatiently. Hans smirks at this display of almost animalic agitation. “Undress,” he says. “And be quick about it. I don’t have all day.”  
  
Blue eyes widen, regard him with complete adoration, as if he were a god that needs to be worshipped, regards him as if he were the king he should be. Then, the man moves, strips. Strong, muscular arms push Hans into the pillows, large hands curl around his upper arms, a hot body presses up against his own. The man leans down, blond hair falls into his face as he closes his eyes to kiss Hans gently.  
  
Well, he tries to, at least, for Hans turns his head away and grimaces when rough, dry lips graze his cheek. The other man – Hans didn’t even care enough to try to remember his name, because they are all the same to  him, they are interchangeable, are all the same, muscles and brawn and a hard cock to thrust into him, they aren’t good for anything else – looks at him in confusion, and Hans feels his lips curl in an arrogant smile. “You know what we agreed to.” No kisses. Nothing intimate. We talked about this.  
  
The unspoken _You are only good enough to fuck me_ rings heavily in the uneasy silence between them.   
  
A small sound escapes the other man’s lips. The smile that he forces couldn’t be faker. However, he still nods, waits for Hans to turn over on his stomach, to press his face into the fluffy pillows.  
  
It’s not like Hans cares about the other man’s needs, about whether he’s impatient or not. Hans only cares about himself. After all, this is all about him. It’s about him feeling good, taken care of, satisfied and _loved_ (even though he will never experience the kind of love he longs for). Nothing else matters. So, he closes his eyes, digs his fingers into the fabric of the blankets – a sole sign of his own impatience –, as he hears the too familiar sound of a small bottle being opened. Wet, oily fingers spread his cheeks, stroke his entrance, and Hans presses his lips together as a long, thick finger pushes inside him, clumsily, roughly, bit all in all quite _acceptably_. He can live with that (and if he were honest with himself, then he’d admit that he enjoys this somehow, even though the feeling of someone else’s fingers is a new one. He’s always done this himself before, has prepared himself to not be dependent on somebody else’s competence).  
  
 _But now_ , a small voice whispers in his mind, _now you enjoy it far too much_. He cannot deny it, for it awakens certain thoughts, associations (of a _breeding mare_ that gets prepared before someone takes hold of her reins and leads her onto the meadow), which spurs on his filthy and forbidden fantasies. Even though he’d never let anyone put reins on him.  
  
A second and a third finger find their way inside him – roughly, functionally, spreading him further and further –, only to withdraw some moments later, to leave Hans empty and frustrated and wanting. He grits his teeth, listens to the other man’s heavy breathing. To his own shame, he doesn’t manage to choke down a greedy moan as the hot, thick cock pushes inside him _so_ deeply. But that doesn’t matter. Let him hear it. It’s not about that, not about him. It’s about Hans. Nothing more, nothing less. With shaking hands, he reaches behind him, grips a muscular arm and pulls the other man above him, so that the large body covers his own, presses up against his back, tight and hot and wet, so that Hans can finally get lost in his fantasy. Blue eyes change to brown ones, naked skin turns to short fur. Hot breath hits his neck, his cheek as he is being taken hard, so brutally hard that he already  knows he won’t be able to walk the next day.  
  
Hans’ fingernails dig into the blanket, into the pillow, as he moves underneath _him_ , bucks his hips for _him_ , to meet _his_ thrusts, while his own hard and leaking cock rubs relentlessly against the fabric of the mattress.  
  
It takes long, longer than a minute – thank God, a minute wouldn’t have been enough by far –, but it has to be over eventually, the thrusts become jerky, choppy, and then _he_ bites down onto Hans’ shoulder to come inside his trembling body.  
  
The pain is what makes Hans reach his own climax, the though of _his_ teeth and _his_ pulsating cock, the though of _him_ filling him up with his seed. It’s what makes Hans sink his teeth into the back of his hand to muffle the scream that tumbles over his lips, to silence _his_ name that escapes his mouth as he releases onto his bed, as he dirties it with his shame.  
  
The mark on his shoulder fades two days later. The one on his hand remains another week.  
  
–  
  
He is twenty-three and his soul is lost. Damned. His thoughts are only circling around Sitron, around his own greed, around his needs. It restrains him, restrains his thoughts, his actions, his whole _being_. Every time he sees Sitron, touches him, smells him, he feels the sick and twisted urge to fist a hand in his mane, to press his body against the animal’s and to ejaculate together with him. He catches himself again and again at the thought of getting to his knees and present himself to the horse, to let it mount and use him until they both are satisfied.  
  
And then, then he hates himself, despises himself, is frightened at his own mind.  
  
And he is glad, so very glad that nobody else knows about these morbid wishes.  
  
He doesn’t find sleep any more, for he lies awake at night, thinking, turning the situation around in his mind over and over again. He is a failure. A disgrace. What would his brothers think?  
  
If there is a God, then they will never know. But if there is a God, then why does he feel this way? He has … done some research, has looked up instances of historical events, of people with the same devilish urges. He has read about a tzarina from the far East, who has been said to having lain with her horses, though Hans doubts this. People would have usurped as soon as these rumors had proven to be true. He’s also read about an emperor from the South, who, allegedly, had made his horse senator. Though there is nothing to be found about him doing unspeakable things to the horse.  
And then, there are the legends of his ancestors, of a God turning into a mare and lying with a steed. But Hans is no mare, is no God, is only human. So he cannot expect to be treated with any kind of respect, cannot excuse his behaviour.  
  
It’s no use. It’s too much for him to bear. He turns and tosses in his bed, unable to find some rest. Finally, after hours of self-loathing, he leaves his room and bed and ventures towards the stables to take these matters in his own hands once and for all.  
  
Sitron is awake and greets him with a sound. His ears twitch as he watches Hans open the stall and step inside. Then, he nudges Hans’ hands with his nose, snuffling at his palm.  
  
“I don’t have any apples for you,” Hans says with a sad smile on his lips and pets Sitron’s nose. “I have nothing with me. I have … I am … ” He trails off, for he knows that however smart Sitron might be, he cannot exactly spill his heart out to him, cannot explain his feelings. He cannot expect Sitron to understand his inner turmoil. But he can put his arms around his neck, bury his face in the soft fur, inhale his smell. He can do this, right? There is nothing inappropriate about petting his horse, right?  
  
… but there is something inappropriate about the way his body reacts, about the way he moans against Sitron’s neck, about how his cock stiffens underneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt.  
  
What he feels is unnatural. What he wishes for is as well. And what he does is something that would have gotten him burned at the stakes two centuries ago.  
  
His fingers stroke Sitron’s flank, his chest and abdomen, until Hans reaches the sheath that hides ‘what lies in-between’.  
  
Sitron neighs, a shudder going through that large body, and he treads from on leg to the other.  
  
Hans takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, touches Sitron _there_ to find out how he reacts. He can’t believe he’s really doing is, for even though it has been his wish for months ( _no, years, be honest with yourself, Hans, there was never anyone else. It was always Sitron. Only Sitron. Nobody and nothing else_ ), to actually _practice_ this kind of sodomy takes a truly deranged mind. Like his, obviously. He doesn’t dare to look at what he is doing, doesn’t dare to look at his hand that is still lying between his horse’s legs, his palm caressing the sensitive skin.   
  
He feels Sitron growing hard, and it’s so surreal, so different from a man getting an erection; the tip is poking out of the sheath, rubbing against Hans’ palm, and he doesn’t have the courage to touch it directly, he bites down on his lower lip and carries on with caressing the sheath, stroking the tip with his palm. Only when he hears him neigh, Hans withdraws his hand as if he’d burned it, opens his eyes just in time to see Sitron toss his head from left to right, and _then_ , he catches the first glimpse of his cock, long and hard, and Hans just _looks_ at it, and, oh God, he is glad he isn’t going to go through with the urge of offering himself up to Sitron, because _that_ would tear him apart.  
  
He takes another deep breath and finally dares to reach out and curl his fingers around the cock in front of him (he barely manages to get his hand around it, and oh, that makes him whimper, because he cannot help but think about all those cocks he had inside of him while imagining they were Sitron’s, and now he’s just found out that _none_ of them were even close to _this_. None of them were this big, this long. None of them could ever do Sitron justice).  
  
Sitron moves suddenly, unexpectedly, and Hans flinches, his lips parting in confusion, his hand still around the horse’s arousal as he watches Sitron get up on his hind legs to shift his weight and put his front legs on top of the stall door instinctively.  
  
 _You’re wondering where your mare might be, aren’t you? You’re searching for her to mate with_ , Hans thinks, and he _doesn’t_ want to think _Your mare is right here_ , but the thought comes unbidden and forces a burst of hysterical laughter out of his mouth.  
  
The scent of arousal lingers in the air, and Hans _touches_ him, brushes a thumb over the tip, caresses the shaft with one hand while petting Sitron’s neck and flank with the other one, hard flesh underneath his fingertips. He shivers, his breath coming out in flat, uneven gasps.  
  
It doesn’t take long. A minute at most. Then, with a last breathless sound, Sitron comes all over Hans’ hand, hot liquid running down his wrist and pooling in a small puddle on the ground.  
  
Hans looks at his hand, looks at the sticky liquid. A moan tumbles over his lips, impatient and confused and so, _so_ desperate. Hastily, he hunches up the fabric of his nightshirt with his clean hand to take his own pulsating flesh in the other one, Sitron’s wetness feeling hot against his aching cock. He groans and sinks to his knees, for his legs won’t support him any longer, because he needs and wants and it’s good, so good and so hot, so wonderful. He bites down on his lower lip, bucks his hips in order to thrust in his hand. Hot breath ghosts over his skin, and Hans _sobs_ in arousal when Sitron nudges his cheek with his nose, nuzzles him and gently nibbles at his shoulder in a horrifyingly wonderful display of love and affection. It’s too much to bear, too much for him to endure, and he comes with a strangled gasp, his own seed mingling with Sitron’s, a reminder of his sickness, of his shame.  
  
-  
  
Is this how he’ll be remembered? Is this what they’ll write about him in the history books? The thirteenth prince, useless and worthless, only worth a mention for his sick love of his horse?  
  
He spends the rest of the night curled up against Sitron’s side, crying until he has no more tears to shed, his arms around Sitron’s neck, his face pressed against his flank, and for the first time in forever, he feels helpless, feels like the child he has not been in years.  
  
-  
  
It takes three months (three long months full of abstinence and self-loathing) until the actions that occurred this fateful night repeat, for the flesh is weak and Hans is weak and the Lord doesn’t have mercy on his soul. It results in tears again, in a guilty conscience, and the knowledge that _something_ has to be done.   
  
A week later the invitation to the coronation of soon-to-be Queen Elsa of Arendelle arrives, and Hans sees this a gift from God. He makes haste to arrange everything he needs for the journey, his mouth a grim line, a plan already forming in his mind. History is always written by the winning side, after all, and as soon as he becomes king – he doesn’t even doubt that she’ll want him, for he knows about his charm, he knows that she’ll be smitten with him – he is the one to dictate how he will go down in history.  
  
This is his, no, _their_ only chance.  
  
And he will do everything necessary to obtain this goal.


End file.
